


Façade

by Nyanoka



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Alternate Character Interpretation, Gen, Manipulative Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-07-02 15:12:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15799119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyanoka/pseuds/Nyanoka
Summary: Robin is neither as amicable as he appears, nor is he actually someone worth trusting.





	Façade

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't satisfied with this 2 months ago, and I'm not satisfied now, but there's not much else I'd want to add on. Un'beta'd.

There’s a rot in his brain and fire, brimstone cold, in his veins. These are the only two facts that he’s entirely certain of when he wakes to a stranger’s hand on his own, hoisting him up, and to unfamiliar kindness.

He nods when necessary, lets the other man speak, notes the suspicion present and unhidden on the face of the man’s companion, and he thinks. Robin understands of course. Doubt has always been one of the cornerstones of survival, a long-held and inherent part of any creature, for man or beast or anything beyond such categorization.

Of course, they, decay and fire, are both unsuitable substitutes for memories, for kindness and living, but doubt and falsity are not.

And thus, he makes his decision then, of who he would be and of what his place should be.

There’s not much else he can do after all.

But Robin makes do with what he has, and he continues, all fictitious smiles and half-truths abound.

And the rot spreads, digging its roots further into his very being, unthinking and blue dark.

* * *

It’s unsurprising that the other Shepherds come to him.

Since his inception into their midst, he’s always been kind, amicable to an almost nauseating degree. He learns from them, puts on a painted face, like a nobleman at a masquerade, and he soothes their troubles.

He doesn’t complain. He only molds himself to fit their expectations of what he should be, and what he himself _thinks_ he should be.

It’s not very pleasant, to hide and subdue one’s self like a mindless beast, but Robin makes do as life demands.

He calculates and observes, adding on bits here and there to himself like patchwork.

As more come into their midst, laced together by war and tribulation and collected like unwanted chess pieces, he stretches himself further, hides within himself and behind a multitude of words and actions.

It’s a funeral shroud for him, dyed with pretenses and decaying purple.

* * *

In the dim glow of the bedchambers, he lets the prince clumsily undo the buttons of his coat, lets the prince’s apologies about his inexperience wash off of him like water on canvas, and kisses him like a lover should.

He knows his actions are abhorrent, more akin to a selfish whore or beast than human.

But, he doesn’t care much for the morality of it. That was for people who had the time, the opportunity and foolishness to.

He doesn’t pay much attention to his partner outside of the necessities of intercourse, a soft word of encouragement here and there and sweet traces of affectionate touch.

It is as it is, a necessity for a continued, guaranteed, and protected existence, and he distracts himself with the green of the sheets during their acts.

He doesn't say anything when the prince laces their hands together afterwards. It's not his place.

* * *

The orange hue of dawn was a comfort for him as it was for many of his companions.

That was a bit of truth that he shared with them, untwisted by his own thoughts and needs.

 It was a reminder of living, of the fact that they had made it another day.

* * *

He doesn’t like Nowi, doesn’t like how she looks at him.

It’s not the liveliness that he minds, or even the childishness of her daily performances.

It’s _how_ she sees him. He doesn’t see the same veil, the same ignorance in her eyes as the rest of their companions.

No matter his actions, how he twists and bends himself for her, she never falters, fallen for his deception.

Unlike a majority of their companions, she holds the advantage of age, of wisdom gained through time. Unlike them, she has seen many men like him, peasant and nobility alike, self-preserving yet dying and uncaring of lies.

Furthermore, she wasn’t blinded by love like their commander, or by projected memories of old friends like her elder.

Rather, she saw him as he was and who he would be, a ghost of a person who only existed in others’ memories, in what they saw and interpreted.

He sees pity, and he dislikes it, abhors it like the violet of her mantle.

Most importantly, he dislikes how she never confronts him, never speaks of his hollowness.

* * *

The white of Yen’fay’s hair is speckled with blood, and it is repugnant to him, repulsive in its implication and a reminder of death.

Dying in battle, in defense of another was not a foreign concept to him, but it was an unthinkable and incomprehensible one.

Why would another’s life be equal to his in the exchange between life and death?

He doesn’t understand the reasoning, and he does not, should not, care to understand.

Where Say’ri found sorrow, he found resolve.

* * *

The words, more cacophony than pellucid, he hears from Grima are ones unheard by and unspoken to his companions. Perhaps it was a side effect of their connection, but Robin doesn’t think too much on it. That would be unnecessary, a waste of energy to contemplate, especially considering his current situation.

He hears the dragon’s words, over the prince’s shouts and those of his companions.

_Let him plunge the blade._

_Save yourself._

_Choose yourself over them._

The words continue unbidden, lacking any hint of fear, as if sure of his choice. Though, he supposes, confidence was expected if one were dealing with a being with similar motivations.

It was a bit disgusting how similar they were, but Robin doesn’t care much.

After all, he’s already made his choice since his awakening.

He submits, and the rot blooms, camellia red and dahlia black.

They were always one and the same.

**Author's Note:**

> The colors themselves tie to the ones in "The Masque of the Red Death" and are loosely based on those interpretations and the flowers aren't just there to increase my word count. This is absolutely just as pretentious as it sounds.


End file.
